Stranded!
by sakurasencha
Summary: A country drive turns disastrous when a broken down motor leaves Mary, Matthew, Sybil and Branson as the title so aptly suggests.
1. Chapter 1

_Just a bit of fluffy humor in anticipation of the changing family dynamics in series 3. As usual this is not to be taken too seriously :) Special thanks to **3down1up** for looking it over and making sure I'm not crazy!_**  
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**Chapter 1  
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The foyer was rife with Mary's unvoiced annoyance that morning. It felt to be creeping out of her very pores, seeping up the walls and filling in the grooves in the crown molding. But as usual the ivory surface of her face betrayed nothing, looking to the entire world as a lesson in imperturbation. It certainly appeared that way to Mary's younger sister, who suspected nothing amiss as she lounged on a plush bench, serene as the Lady Madonna herself, and blathering on about her latest pair of botched booties."

"It was a disaster, Mary. The yarn was _completely_ ruined!"

"You never did have a genius for needlework," Mary replied brutally. "Best to leave it to one of Branson's innumerable female relations."

Sybil sighed. "That's what his mother keeps telling me."

Their loitering in the foyer was a reversal of sorts, a paradox of the ages, for at the moment it was the women waiting for the men folk. Mary in particular was eagerly anticipating the arrival of her husband, who two days previous had been struck with another of his splendid ideas – a Saturday drive out in the countryside with their new motor. That morning was to be the fulfillment of his grand scheme, and such an excursion might have been the perfect antidote for Mary's ill humor, a reminiscence of their early engagement when country drives were frequent and sometimes whispered behind closed doors in the neighborhood to be indecently long.

But she could foresee with an ominous clairvoyance that this outing would bear no hint of those memorable getaways, for Matthew, in his vast charity, had invited along the Abbey's most recent guests, which just so happened to include the one person who'd been the sole source of Mary's dour mood, and who was just then emerging from behind one of those forbidden baize covered doors.

"Good morning, Branson," Mary greeted.

"Good morning, Lady Mary," he evenly replied.

Yes, the chauffeur was back, yet again, and this time at the earnest behest of Lady Grantham. Sybil was nigh onto her delivery date, and her mother considered it an extreme offense, a veritable affront to nature if her first grandchild were born anywhere but under the secure rooftop of Downton Abbey. The Bransons themselves had decided early on that the drawbacks of the journey outweighed any of the numerous benefits; but Cora's fervor had eclipsed all argument. Papa pleaded. Sybil reasoned. Edith felt sure she didn't care one way or another. And Mary wisely chose to swallow down any of her complaints in the face of her mother's ferocious threats.

"What were you doing down there?" Sybil inquired of her husband, patting the empty seat beside her.

He sat down and began rubbing her belly. Mary looked away. "Just popped down for a few to do some catching up," she heard him reply.

Typical Branson, Mary mused. Of course he _would_ have the audacity to traverse the halls, whether intended for servant or family use, with impunity. Indeed, he seemed to take distinct relish in trampling over each and every one of the established and time-honored household customs. He would have no valet. He dispensed with Anna's linen changing each morning. He even refused to ring the bell!

Mary took a deep breath. If she drooped her lids just right her vision blurred enough to transform the fawning into something more akin to Carson polishing a fat, silver tureen. The irritability that stoked whenever Branson was near was something she tried desperately hard to regulate, and on the whole she managed to bear with the trial of her sister's wayward decision with an adequate amount of composure – at least, when the Bransons were nestled hundreds of miles away in Dublin's fair city. But when they were visiting the Abbey, and she had the misfortune of actually _seeing_ him, whether casually leaning against a piece of furniture worth more than his life savings, or seated intolerable close to her darling little sister as he was now – a fresh and palpable reminder of everything he had taken from her – her heart never failed to simmer with fierce a resentment.

The prospect of the upcoming activity was causing the heat to bubble up even now, a matchstick thrown under the burner of her temper, but was remarkably cooled by the vision descending the steps – Matthew Crawley, her husband – clad in a fine khaki suit and a pair of sumptuous driving gloves.

"We were wondering when you would arrive," Mary greeted him with a smile. "If you ever expect to be a proper host you must learn not to be late to your own party." They exchanged a swift kiss, and all dreary thoughts of brother-in-laws were discarded. "I suppose it was the cuff links this morning. Do I need to have another word with Molesley?"

"Hardly," Matthew chuckled. "Your father stopped me on the way over. He wanted to discuss some business with the estate. It seems the geese have gotten quite the run of the lake lately," he informed her with zeal.

She flashed a magazine-cover smile. "Fascinating. Well, now that we've all convened we had better set off." Mary turned to address her sister being helped to her feet by her husband. "I'm sure you're quite looking forward to our jaunt into the wilderness."

Sybil yawned. "I suppose. Though to be honest I'm not very fond of drives."

They gathered into the new motor – a 1920 Rolls Royce with all the trimmings – Mary perched to the left of Matthew who took steady command of the driver's seat, his wife's hand laced up in a tasteful white glove that rested gracefully upon his knee. With some intricate maneuvering Sybil was eventually crammed inside with Branson occupying what little space remained in the back seat.

They drove on companionably, both couples content in their own quiet and mercifully separate conversations. It was early summer, and the caustic heat of North York was beginning to wilt the countryside; but nonetheless the charming aspect of nature's easy beauty was a balm to those ensconced in the cement fortresses of the city, and still a sweet diversion to those more at home amidst the hillocks and dales.

The evening before, Matthew had papered their dining table with detailed maps of the county, scribbling down copious notes. "Are we going for a drive in the country or storming Haxby Park?" Mary had teased, but smiled fondly over his head bent low in serious concentration. Matthew had an aptitude for planning, but was rather over-meticulous – a natural fault of lawyers, she had always assumed. But since the specially designed route would take them a good ways apart from civilization, even she had to admit it was wise to ensure they ventured forth sufficiently prepared.

Other than destination the scheme had also been careful in its schedule, set as a morning expedition that would have the party back well before luncheon. But for Sybil, whose sake the early hour had been decided, their hour of homecoming and sustenance would not be nearly soon enough. Apparently Matthew, for all his foresight, had forgotten that uniquely pregnant necessity of the midmorning snack.

A loud grumbling preceded Sybil's next words.

"I'm hungry," she pouted. The complaint gave Branson a jolt as he remembered:

"Oh! I asked Daisy to make a sandwich for you while I was down in the kitchen." He made a grand show of presenting her the bounty, which she duly accepted with overt gratitude, and before long Sybil's mouth was full to the brim with ham and cheese.

Mary viewed it all with ugly disdain from the mirror. Aside from the canoodling, and the visible evidence that Sybil's eating habits had grown rather indelicate, there were other observations that disquieted her, such as how a full-length ham and cheese sandwich could suddenly appear out of seemingly thin air.

"Where was he keeping it?" she muttered to her husband. "Under his hat?" Typical Branson, she mused. Full of secrets.

Matthew chuckled, a light, frothy sound that carried to the clouds. He was a regular chatterbox that morning, regaling Mary with anecdotes from the office and being put to stitches by her wry replies. He looked quite as delicious as Sybil's ham and cheese with the wind fraying his brown locks and the sunlight dressing up his eyes, and for a while Mary was able to ignore the nauseating display from the backseat.

The roads became slimmer and dirtier; the number of people, sheep, and living beings in general thinned out to a hair. Ambling along, the quick, fresh air restored vitality and cleared away any residual anxiety as to the make up of the party. It was event planning at its epoch, and Matthew smiled with a bit of smug pride that he had successfully worked out his ploy to make Mary enjoy a day out with Branson.

"Still seething?" he asked her.

"Do I look like it?"

"No. But then you never do."

"That would present a quite problem for your husbandly discernment. I suggest you make a return to the habits of your schooldays, and denote myself as the subject of your devoted study."

"You have my devotion in any form you please, and that for the rest of my life." He snuck in an adoring glance before plastering his eyes back to the road, and removed his timepiece from his jacket pocket to check on the time. "I think things have gone marvelously. The only thing left is to get your pregnant sister safely back to Downton," he said – which naturally meant that was the exact moment when a loud, abrupt grating emitted from under the bonnet.

The car lurched to a slow crawl. The engine stalled and came to a stuttering stop.

Matthew tittered nervously.

"Well, looks like something's gone awry. Let me just…" He hopped out and fiddled for a few minutes with the crankshaft.

Branson didn't budge an inch from his seat, but kindly offered, "I don't think that will help."

Matthew glanced up. "Oh?"

"Sounded like the transmission, not the starter."

"Ah." Matthew popped open the hood of the bonnet. What greeted him was a tangle of metal parts and widgets as familiar as ancient hieroglyphics.

"Yes, the transmission." He cleared his throat and loosened his tie, before giving another tremulous laugh. "Rather grimy down there, isn't it."

"Should be," Branson replied, "if it's working right."

"Or even if it isn't, apparently," Matthew said with a chuckle.

Mary was fast growing weary of the banal exchange. _Branson, just get out and fix the bloody thing! _Not in a score of centuries would she have uttered the remark out loud, but to her luck there was another mouth with the gumption to voice the obvious.

"Oh for heaven's sake, Tom, just get out and fix the bloody thing!" Sybil exclaimed, several morsels of bread flying from her mouth.

"Language, darling."

"I'm not a _lady_ anymore, Mary, I don't have to watch my language." Mary's eyes made several revolutions as Sybil applied to her husband yet again. "Well?"

Branson shrugged. "I can't," he said simply.

"Don't be ridiculous! I've seen you turn a junk heap into a working engine before. Surely you can repair whatever's broken in this brand new, top of the line motor!"

"Of course I can. Just not here, like this." Sybil lowered her eyes, a visual message that if she missed even one bite of luncheon he would surely be the one to suffer. "I don't have any tools!" he cried in his defense. "I can't fix it with the power of my mind!"

"Then it seems we'll need to acquire some tools," Matthew chimed in diplomatically, reclaiming his seat behind the wheel. "Perhaps from the next village?"

The next village. It sounded simple enough, but Mary felt that telltale tingle tip toeing its way up her spine, that pervasive, unshakable feeling that things were about to get a lot worse before they got better.

"How far away is that?" she asked tersely.

Matthew retrieved the map and ran his finger down the thick, red line that marked out their route. "About fifteen miles, I should say."

"That's not too far," Branson responded hopefully. "I suppose we'll just have to –"

"I am _not_ walking," Sybil protested. "Not unless you all want to try your hands at midwifery before the day is through."

Leather seats not yet worn in belched loudly as Mary twisted around. "Of course Sybil's not walking. And neither am I," she said flatly, permitting no dispute.

"Then what do you propose?" Matthew asked. Mary shrugged.

"We'll wait. Our absence will be noticed and after a time Papa will send a motor out looking for us. You _did_ tell Papa where we were going, didn't you Matthew?"

Matthew looked down to his feet.

"Matthew."

He looked up at the sky.

"Matthew?"

He gave a sheepish smile. "Perhaps that one small detail slipped my mind…"

An aggravated groan was looming at the base of Mary's throat, but like all emotions undignified she squelched it down soundly – so much for Matthew's perfect planning."I don't believe all is lost," she said. "While this obviously isn't a _busy_ road, I'm sure it's not completely deserted. We'll simply have to wait for another passing motor."

The trio obeyed without contest and endeavored to situate themselves for a long wait. But to their endless relief, and after only a half hour of tense silence punctuated by bouts of heavy blame shifting, a lorry came rumbling by, headed in the direction of Matthew's village about fifteen miles off. Branson and Matthew left the car to wave the good driver down, Mary fast on their heels.

"Move aside, I'll deal with this," she ordered, patience with the affair waning, and brutally shoving both men aside as she stepped up to the driver's window with a winning smile. She knew herself to be by far the most diplomatic of the bunch, as well as the best speaker besides, and immediately set about issuing an eloquent and concise explanation of their current dire straights. The driver nodded along, appearing wholly sympathetic, and Mary felt sure of an early release from their plight by the end of her spiel, wherein he cupped a hand over his ear, all but shouting:

"What's that, Miss?"

Mary started.

"Forgive me, I thought myself clear. I said our motor has broken down and we'd be ever so grateful for a lift to the next village."

"Gonna have to talk louder, Miss," he said, tapping his ear by way of explanation. There were too many grievances Mary was currently harboring, but she set aside extra room for this cosmic joke, this sending of a stone-deaf driver as their deliverance, that the heavens were no doubt giggling over. But she collected herself, sallied forth bravely, and tried once again, one notch higher in dynamic.

A ping pong match ensued, Mary crawling inch by inch up in volume, the driver responding with requests for more; but they were at an impasse, for the driver could no sooner mend his hearing as he could his teeth (or what was left of them), and as for Mary, decades spent mastering the art of polite table talk forbid her from raising her voice above anything indecorous, though she tried to compensate by accentuating with vigor. By the fourth recapitulation it was clear action must be taken by the single member of the party with absolutely no compunctions on civility.

"CAN YOU TAKE US TO THE NEXT VILLAGE?" Branson shouted directly into the man's ear.

A toothless grin erupted on the driver's face. "Course I can take you all! Hop into the back and we'll be off!"

Branson gallantly handed his wife in, while Matthew quickly followed to help lower the pregnant woman down onto the bed of the lorry, and she looked tolerably settled when a stricken expression overtook her.

"My sandwich!" Sybil cried, reaching fruitlessly in the direction of her cherished snack. Branson immediately set off towards the motor, and before Mary could be helped in her husband proffered down a request of his own.

"Mary, darling, could you fetch my jacket from the front seat? I wouldn't bother but it has my wallet."

Mary bit her tongue. She wouldn't have bothered either if it weren't for the way his twinkling blue eyes sweetened the entreaty, and it really was such a petty request that she soon found herself trailing after Branson, who was upbeat and whistling, appearing almost too jovial in his readiness to remain Sybil's eternal servant.

Two heads bent down to retrieve their spouses' errant belongings, and snapped back again at the sound of a rumbling engine, the screeching of wheels, and the look of dismay on Sybil and Matthew's faces from the back of the lorry as they were bore swiftly down the road.

Matthew quickly popped his head around to the driver's side window. "Stop! Stop I say!" But the man drove on, heedless, hearing nothing but his own atonal humming and what he assumed to be a very nasally bird.

Matthew tried again – "You've left some of us behind!" – which additional plea availed him not. Panic set in, and Sybil gave him a wide berth as he dispensed it with furious arm flapping and futilely yelling out his wife's name. The two stranded figures on either side of Matthew's motor continued to diminish, and when time and distance had shrunk them down to miniatures he took a steadying breath, and turned towards Sybil.

"Shall we jump out?" He might have suggested they bake her first born into a meat pie for the expression of horror on her face.

"You're right," Matthew agreed. "Wouldn't quite be the thing, now would it?"

"No, very unwise indeed. But I'm sure another motor will come by soon. They can catch a ride then, and we'll all be reunited before long." Matthew looked unconvinced, and troubled. Sybil exerted a modicum of energy by lifting her hand to his in support. "Don't worry Matthew," she comforted. "Mary will be all right. I'm sure Tom will take good care of her."

Matthew grimaced.

"Mary's not the one I'm worried about."

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_Next time we shall see how our stranded wayfarers are doing. Thanks for reading :)_


	2. Chapter 2

_Thanks again to **3down1up** for looking it over and her wonderful feedback! Also thanks to all those who reviewed. I wasn't expecting much response from this silliness and was quite overwhelmed!_**  
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**Chapter 2**

"There is no tax on talk" had been the common Irish phrase in their common Irish household, spoken almost exclusively in reference to his runaway mouth by his admittedly common Irish mother. That woman, the rock bed on which Branson had built the foundation of his life, was something of a hypocrite in that respect, for she herself often had a barrage of words dangling at her lips, usually in the form of quaint crumbs of advice, verbal remedies for any malady such that life may inflict.

It was to that source which Branson often turned to in times of distress – after Sybil's initial, heart splitting rejection, or upon receipt of the letter containing the news of his cousin's demise. But as he scraped the recesses of his mind, sorting through the menagerie for that one token bit of wisdom that might help him as he was now – saddled with the unenviable predicament of being isolated with Her Majesty the Lady Mary Crawley – his search turned up empty.

The two had watched in mute astonishment the lorry careening down the road and absconding with their spouses. A few seconds were enough to see it vanished altogether, the only evidence of its existence the fading echoes of an engine and a perversely large swell of dust.

The slowly drifting particulates had coursed over them like a fog, and though immediately waylaying Branson with a frenzied coughing fit (hale and hearty on the outside, his insides were a morass of prolapsing heart valves and asthmatic lung lobes), for Lady Mary, who had stumbled a few, inelegant paces into the brown swirl, its opacity ably masked her visible state of shock: lips parted, limbs slackened to rubber, her tall frame gently swaying like a reed in the breeze.

When his attack had yielded he recomposed himself and initiated his vain search for maternal council. Although now suitably versed on proverbs regarding the common Irish issues of over-drinking and wife selection, he was still without any direction on what his next step should be in this current dilemma, and so he simply smiled, inclining his head down the road.

"Looks like they forgot about us," he began.

"Yes. It appears they have," she answered rather mindlessly. Brows lifting, Branson eyed the maiden warily as her tottering became more and more pronounced, amplifying until she could have passed for a recently felled piece of timber.

_I'm not catching her_ was his first, uncharitable thought. This was rapidly overruled by a second, that he had better well prepare himself for an entire fusillade of demands upon his person, for if Lady Mary was anything like those stately women in those mushy romance novels which of course he never read under cover of darkness, then she would soon be collapsing like a lamb preparing to be turned into an expensive rack of chops, bleating out pleas for assistance or being cast into "the vapors", whatever those were.

He approached her cautiously, unobtrusively, fearing any disturbance might overthrow her delicate equilibrium. But she must have felt the intrusion, for her head twisted sharply to his figure and her eyes roved over his face, appraising him in a puzzled fashion as if she'd never seen him before in her life.

That settled the matter – _she's lost it_ – which thought thrust Branson into full on action mode. He closed the last of the distance between them. "I know it seems desperate, milady," he said soothingly, "but I think it'll be all right. I don't promise to be a great adventurer, but I'm sure I can get us over to that village in one piece."

Something about his tone, words, mien, or more likely a combination of all three, slapped her senses back into working order. Her swaying stopped. Her shoulders squared. And her angular features readjusted themselves to their normal expression of marble-like superiority.

She frowned.

"Forgive me, have I somehow misheard? Are you somehow in charge now?"

Branson took half a step back. "I never said that," he said carefully. "I only mean that there's no cause for worry, and that I'm fairly sure I can lead us safely back to the village."

"And why should you be the one to lead us?" Her voice was an ice cube, her tone of displeased inquiry ascending to unadulterated sarcasm. "Is it because I am as you suppose a mere frail woman, or, accounting for your more liberal leanings, a frail _rich_ woman?"

"I didn't say –"

"And why should you be relied upon for our survival when it's your fault we're in this predicament in the first place?"

For a moment indignation was put off by speechlessness – a mewling lamb she was certainly not. Lady Mary was "the strong one", isn't that what Sybil always told him? Tough as nails, he was beginning to see, and just as palatable at that.

He decided he would have preferred the lamb chop.

"My fault?" he seethed, his face a storm cloud. "How is this _my_ fault?"

"You call yourself a chauffeur, and yet you can't even repair a damaged motor when the need calls for it. How you ever remained in service for so long…"

"I was an _excellent_ chauffeur! Everyone says so! And besides, I'm not a chauffeur anymore, and so it's no longer my duty to stow the toolbox in the boot before taking a pleasure drive." Neither was accustomed to giving way, and the pair lobbed meaty and measured glares at one another in the ensuing silence, until an exceedingly angry growl made Branson's accent nearly undecipherable. "You can well place the blame where it belongs, and it's not on me!"

Mary's mouth pressed into a slim, unforgiving line. Even in the harrowing days of Sir Richard she had never been shouted at. And how often had she kept the level of her voice even keeled, cheerfully holding her tongue in bondage to the chains of sisterly solidarity? For two years when they conducted their secret liaison; afterwards, in that awkward period where Sybil breezed about the house as if marrying the chauffeur were a weekly occurrence; at their wedding – at _her_ wedding – and all for the sake of Sybil, who Mary would happily consent to be raked over coals rather than see injured by her own doing.

But Sybil was no more, and likewise the restraint that stayed the tongue, and with an invigorating release Mary felt the reins that held in her inner monologues snapping one by one.

She waved a dismissive hand.

"Yes, yes! It's always someone else's fault, isn't it Branson?" she clipped. "The government. Society. My family. Everyone and everything is against you, and just so unpardonably unfair, isn't it?"

His expression remained largely unchanged, but for the eyes that narrowed in strictly maintained ire. "So are we done walking on egg shells, then?" he said frankly. "Sybil's gone. Mr. Crawley's gone. No use acting like we're anything more than spiteful in-laws, is that it?"

"The facts are plain, and as you say: I don't like you and you don't like me. Now would you rather waste our energy canvassing a subject we're both well acquainted with, or shall we decide what our next course of action should be?"

"What's there left to decide? Whether I build you a new working motor out of thin air or just carry you on my back the whole way so your feet won't get dusty?"

"You flatter yourself that I prefer your backside over the much more pleasing aspect of fine, Yorkshire dirt. Besides, I already told you: I'm not walking."

Branson sighed. "Please be reasonable, milady. We're stranded here, without anyway of getting back. If we start now we can make it to the village before nightfall."

"That's your problem, Branson. You're sooner to act than you are to think. By all means be on your way; it would save my senses the trouble of pretending you're not here. But I think I'll wait for Matthew and Sybil to reach the village and send a motor on after us, if it's quite all right with you."

She swanned into the passenger seat with nary a feather ruffled, and observed her brother-in-law leaning against the bonnet in a gimcrack show of indifference. But she felt the tension; she sensed the anger; and with the way his lips pursed and his eyes narrowed, invisible cogs no doubt whirling about his thick, socialist skull, she surmised he was probably mentally preparing his next article on the vagaries and cruelties of the aristocracy, and she felt rather proud that she would soon be a featured example.

In the end he relented. "I suppose you're right. We'll just have to wait," he conceded tersely, kicking at a few middling pebbles.

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As these things invariably went, the lorry driver, being of that obliging and compassionate sort, had made a surfeit of stops on the way to the village, picking up passenger after passenger until the bed of his vehicle was stocked like a cattle wagon on its way to the slaughter. Matthew, sweating buckets and intermittently gulping, certainly felt as though his neck were laid on the butcher's block. His options were as clear as they were narrow: leave Mary to her fate, or abandon Sybil to hers. Both were unthinkable to his profound sense of chivalry, and no matter what he chose he felt himself to be as good as cooked.

Smashed into sardine-like contiguity, there was little space for repositioning, permitting only a slight shifting of eyes with which Matthew could study his sister. He saw her with both hands perched on her abdomen, eyes closed and breathing deeply as if in imitation of sleep. But the illusion was incomplete, for every now and again she evinced a shuddering swallow, and, even more imminently troubling, was the excessive pallor of her skin becoming rapidly infused with another palette, a baleful hue ranging somewhere between pea soup and cucumber.

He took a few, preemptive scoots closer to the snoozing gentleman on his right, remarking, "Rather an unfortunate mishap, wouldn't you say?"

Her eyes remained sealed – "I know" – and she expelled a dejected sigh. "If only Tom had gotten me my sandwich before we pulled away!"

"Ye-es, there's that….but aren't you at all worried about them? About how they're faring?"

"Not really," she answered heartlessly.

"But it's getting quite warm," he said crisply. "And they're without any food or water."

Sybil's eyes slowly creaked open at his almost rebuke.

"Don't you think your rather exaggerating? They have my sandwich, after all. And besides, they're not children; they're both capable adults who know how to manage in a crisis. I'm sure they'll be perfectly fine." Her eyes fluttered shut in response to another round of indisposition. "No, the only ones I'm worried about are these people who are about to be covered in my breakfast."

Matthew gave up, consigning Sybil to her demons, and to his silence. Jostling along, he noticed after some time a blooming manifestation of the signs of life that signified a return to civilization. Smoking chimneys popped out from the horizon and people began dotting the roadside, while the main thoroughfare leveled out to a smoother grain.

Sat across from Matthew and Sybil were squashed a harmless looking middle-aged couple casting furtive smiles towards the protruding belly. This admiration, along with the ever-steadying road, did much to alleviate Sybil's symptoms, and before long the harmless looking wife leaned over and whispered conspiratorially, "So. When is the happy arrival due?"

Sybil beamed.

"The middle of June. We're very excited!"

"Of course you are! And your first, I suppose?"

Sybil nodded, rubbing fondly over the apex of her belly, cheeks pinked with heat and delight.

"Well, isn't that just wonderful! And you look lovely, my dear, much better than I ever did when I was in the family way." Her good-natured eyes shifted to Matthew. "I'm sure you two will be wonderful parents!"

Several discourteous exclamations were heard as Matthew elbowed his way upright in surprise.

"Oh! We're not – what I mean to say is – I think you're somewhat mistaken that –" he was cut off by a firm clap on the shoulder. The harmless looking husband was leaning deeply over, kissing the brim of Matthew's hat with his own.

"Let me tell you, son," he began, "becoming a father is never a mistake." The benign yet misinformed creature leaned back again and looked fondly at the pair, eyes crinkling as he expounded further his fatherly fonts of wisdom. "I know it may seem difficult at first – impossible, even – but you'll get the hang of it before time. I've got six boys, myself, and I've never regretted a second of it. Would do it all over again, isn't that right Maud?"

Maud agreed ever so, and Mrs. Jones, as the lady was soon introduced, cooked up her own helping of food for thought, tips on bathing and feeding, and that difficult to achieve but almighty blessed event of a good nap, which advice, mistaken presumptions aside, Sybil took in with absorbed rapture. And that one moment, that perfect opportunity to allay the Jones' misconception, to laughingly interpose with a "well, actually" and reveal to them the true nature of Sybil and Matthew's relationship, never did seem to arrive.

The short remainder of the journey catapulted forward under the diversion of the Jones' company. In short order they had arrived at Arbor Grange, an unpretentious little village a few magnitudes smaller than Downton's own. The lorry thundered to a halt, the cattle were herded off, and the Jones', clearly besotted with the devoted couple, were bequeathing them with promises to direct them to the local garage and any such provisions as they would require.

"The garage shall do just fine," Matthew said. "We'd like to get back to the motor as soon as possible and be on our way back home."

They were led to a dingy building manned by an assortment of hard-faced, heavily stained mechanics. "There it is," Mr. Jones indicated.

Matthew turned to Sybil, whose sweat-soaked face reflected his smile of relief.

"There, you see," she said. "We'll be out of this mess shortly!"

* * *

Mary stared, hard and unrelenting, on the vacant road heading north bound. No motors. No people. Not even a disruption of dust. She called out:

"Do you see anything?"

Branson, situated about a dozen yards away and staring avidly down the same road in the opposite direction, replied in kind.

"No."

"What?" she shouted over her shoulder.

"I said no!"

"I can't hear you!"

"I said I don't see anything!"

His reply wafted over as an incomprehensible jumble, and she indulged in a single, strangled cry – "The _one_ time I don't want him to pipe down." Striding back to the motor, she saw Branson had likewise relinquished his search and was leaning against the bonnet. She opened the door and threw herself into one of the many, depressingly empty seats.

It was a savagely hot afternoon, and Mary, in keeping with the originally planned timetable, had neglected to bring a fan. But wondering briefly if Sybil had come more prepared, she reached back and began groping around the backseat. Her hand found nothing to alleviate the heat, but chanced upon another object that might find means to satiate a different need. She duly retrieved it and began munching away.

"Hey!" Branson cried. "That's Sybil's sandwich!"

Mary didn't bother swallowing before responding. "Which came from my parents' kitchen."

"And Sybil's parents' kitchen."

Mary looked up at him placidly.

"I do believe I heard a motor coming up from the north." She craned her neck to stare in the designated direction pointedly. "Why don't you exercise your new found job skills and investigate?"

The only sounds issuing from the north were dull spurts of hot air, but he left all the same – truth be told he, too, rather needed some space to think. He had _tried_, heaven knew how he tried! He ignored the comments whispered just loud enough for him to hear. He went along with their insulting farces whenever he was introduced to another curious acquaintance. He shut his trap whenever the topic at dinner turned to the "Irish troubles", suffering those over-indulged, privileged mouths to besmirch his entire people group without a word.

He thought of last night's dinner, Lady Mary very cleverly talking about everything and nothing all at once, dolled up in London's finest fashions, laughter rising like the bubbles of champagne – and that's what they all were, frothy bits of air, with absolutely no depth.

He stopped a number of yards away, though still within earshot of Her Highness, and sighed. As much as he tried he couldn't bring himself to begrudge the Crawley's their dislike of him, for it was no deep, dark secret of his heart that he wasn't fond of most of them either. He was here now, as he always was, for Sybil's sake and her sake alone. He suspected that it was exactly the reasoning her family had for bearing with his presence, and he marveled at how so many people could put up with so much for one, single woman.

Oh, but what a woman she was!

His tumble of reflections screeched to a halt when a loud, shrill voice summoned him.

"Branson!" Mary demanded.

He had a cursory desire to continue on his path and leave the lady to her fate right then and there, but too many years in service obliged his feet to her side.

"Yes?"

"How long does a fifteen mile drive take to accomplish?" she asked.

"Depends. At the rate they were going I'd say about thirty minutes, give or take."

"And another thirty for the motor to get back here…."

"Yes," he said, nodding, beginning to follow her train of thought. "And taking into account the time for them to arrange everything, then…"

Mary glanced down at the timepiece that Matthew had left behind in his jacket pocket and was now laid open on her lap.

"Then they should have been here…three hours ago."

* * *

"What kind of garage isn't open on the weekends?" Sybil huffed for the third time that afternoon. After the sky splitting row with the mechanics in which Sybil had threatened to do unspeakable things with a wrench, the Jones had kindly offered their small, family-run hotel as a temporary sanctuary. Matthew was there as an unwilling audience to her harangue while the two rested themselves in the vacant breakfast parlor. "Such a beastly bunch of mechanics! Covered in weeks worth of grease and barely intelligible. And that's to say nothing of the establishment itself – disgustingly filthy and unkempt, smelling of motor oil– completely nauseating!"

"It certainly wasn't the most inviting of places," Matthew agreed half-heartedly.

"Certainly not," she fumed. "Do you know, I simply cannot _stand_ garages!"

Mrs. Jones entered in time to hear the last of Sybil's tirade, a tray of tantalizingly cool drinks balanced in her hand.

"I'm terribly sorry, my dear. Our garage isn't known for being the most pleasant, but that's Arbor Grange for you! Here now, you both look hot enough to roast a partridge. Have a drink, on the house!"

Barely a second elapsed between the tray softly landing on the table and the wayfarers' manic gulping. Matthew lapped up the final dregs of his drink, licking his lips as he asked, "I hope it's no bother, but could we by chance use your telephone?"

A hearty laugh was his response, followed by: "Don't have one, I'm afraid!"

Matthew started. "Oh, I see. Then could you perhaps tell us where we could find one?"

"Sure I do! The next village over, about twenty miles east of here." She laughed again. "Our village isn't wired for the telephone yet, I'm sorry to say. A bit behind the times, I suppose, but that's Arbor Grange for you!"

Matthew's ashen face looked to Sybil rubbing her belly in consternation. "A telegraph?" he suggested.

"Been out all week! Though old Nellie tells us it should be fixed up by the morning."

He frowned. "Seems rather an odd spell of bad luck."

"Like the universe is conspiring against us," Sybil sighed.

Matthew leaned over. "What do you think we should do?" he whispered urgently. "We can't just leave them there, stranded on the side of the road all night."

"But what else _can_ we do? We're stranded here as well, there's nothing we can do about it. And they might have rightly assumed that something's gone awry, that we were somehow prevented from fetching them, and decided to walk over. They could be anywhere by now."

Sybil patted his hand, ending the impromptu side bar, and declaring for all who would listen, "I'm famished, and when I'm famished I'm surly." She lavished Matthew with a glittering smile. "Isn't that right, darling?"

Matthew stared at her, slightly baffled; but when the direction of Sybil's cue was at last perceived, he flourished a rather becoming shade of pink, gawping much like the pheasant he had just killed last Christmas. If ever there was a time to undeceive their benefactors, he was convicted, this was it. "Actually," he began, his voice contrite, "the truth is Sybil and I –" his attempts at honesty were laid waste by an unseen yet vicious toe that assailed him from under the table. "Ahem," he amended with a bout of throat clearing. "What I mean is…very surly, indeed. Rather abominable, actually."

Sybil burst forth with an angelic tinkle of laughter. "You see! Matthew knows me so well."

"Well, now!" Mrs. Jones cried, aghast. "Don't tell me you two have had nothing to eat since breakfast!"

"Not even a bite of luncheon," Sybil whimpered.

The good lady clucked her condolences. "How terrible for you, and in your condition, no less. Not to worry, my dear. We'll be serving supper at half past and you two are welcome to join us."

"The thing is," Mathew said, "we haven't got any money with us at the moment and –"

"No need to bother with that. The folks here at Arbor Grange aren't a heartless people. We'd never turn down such a fine couple, run afoul of a spot of bad luck. And as far as lodgings go, we've got a room on the third floor no one's using, and you're welcome to it."

They glanced towards each other, increasing the wattage of their bright, adoring smiles. Sybil was already well aware of the benefits of deception, but for Matthew it was a true revelation.

He grinned.

"It will be most welcome, indeed," he said, caressing Sybil's cheek. "Won't it, my darling?"

* * *

Branson watched the sun dip lower and lower, the surrounding air void of any sounds of life. The irascible heat had prompted a return to his old habit of shameless disrobing, and he stood guard by the bonnet with his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows, his jacket laid sloppily over the backseat, his tie discarded in disgust. Mary, occasionally flinging severe looks at his state of undress, had several times contemplated removing her hat, but she refused to buckle.

In the intervening hours between the troubling discovery of their spouses' tardiness and the descending twilight, the talk had been minimal and to the point. At last Branson decided it was time they confront the inevitable.

"We should find a place to settle down for the night," he said.

"You're not serious…"

"No one's coming to fetch us, so unless you want to sleep here all night, we'll need to find a place to hunker down."

"And exactly where do you suggest we 'hunker down'?" But her words had no effect, seeming to bounce straight off of Branson's back as he strode away.

Mary grabbed Matthew's jacket and the remains of Sybil's sandwich, and scurried after him. When she reached him she heard him say, rather too smugly, "Decided to join me?"

"There's nothing to congratulate yourself over. It was a simple matter, really. I've been entrusted with your care, and if something were to happen to you Sybil would never forgive me."

Branson did his best to remain impassive as he struggled not to laugh, and was alerted by the crinkling sounds of unwrapping paper. He saw her with a familiar, much disputed object in her hand, nibbling upon the bare crusts that remained. Branson shook his head disapprovingly as she popped another bite into her mouth.

"You shouldn't plow through that so fast. We should conserve it."

"Really, Branson, we're not on an expedition in Antarctica. Next I suppose you'll start casting lots on who we should eat first."

"I can't see the point in that – I don't think there's any competition on that score."

"I suppose you're right. The choice seems plain; you'd provide _far_ more meals than I ever would."

"But I'd be much too gamey," he protested. "All that manual labor. You might have less meat on you but it's of a finer quality. Spending your whole life feasting and resting - you'd be like the choicest cut of prime."

They passed the time more amicably then, railing each other with gratuitous cannibalistic comparisons replete with vague and various methods on killing one another, when in the distance Branson espied the orange glow of a nearby farmhouse, to which he pointed excitedly.

"We're in luck, Lady Mary! There's a barn out aways. We can rest there for the night."

Her eyes expanded for the briefest of moments before resuming their neutral position. "For heaven's sake, Branson, we're not eloping! I'm not going to sneak inside of a barn with you!"

"Come on, then. It won't be so bad." He grinned. "I'll even let you sleep in the haymow."

"How kind. But I shall one up you and generously leave the whole of the barn to your sole disposal."

"Suit yourself, then," he curtly replied. "You're welcome to the _stars_, milady." He finished with a mock salute, turned on his heel, and strode guiltlessly away towards the amber beacon without a backwards glance.

Mary took not another step, but stared daggers, pistols, entire armories at his back, wordlessly willing a speedy return to her side.

"Branson," she calmly commanded, though his pace did not abate.

"Branson!" she said again, a hint of agitation creeping into her voice. He continued on stridently.

"Branson!" she bellowed, halfway sprinting to catch up with his frighteningly downsized figure. "You come back here at _once_! How _dare_ you leave me alone out here!"

* * *

_Next time: Will Branson and Mary survive the night and resolve their differences? (spoiler alert: yes)_

_Thanks for reading!  
_


	3. Chapter 3

_Updating on Friday the 13th! I wonder if it is some kind of portent. Thanks once again to **3down1up** for looking it over and her helpful comments. Also to all of you who have reviewed, etc!  
_

* * *

**Chapter 3**

Sybil Branson expelled a contended sigh. She couldn't eat another bite. Matthew, leaning lazily back in his chair and smiling sleepily, was similarly stuffed, surrounded by a number of empty plates that were once groaning with hefty portions of Yorkshire pudding and fork-tender roast beef.

"Have you chosen any names yet?" Mrs. Jones asked gleefully from across the heavy-laden table. Matthew's chest swelled; Sybil's cheeks bloomed full and rosy. The happy couple smiled tenderly towards each other, putting lovebirds to shame with the depths of their postured devotion.

"I was thinking Reginald for a boy," Matthew answered. "After my father, you see. And as for a girl –"

"No, Matthew!" Sybil interjected. "It must be Tom for a boy!"

"Sybil…. we talked about this."

"I'm sorry Matthew but my mind is made up and I refuse to alter it."

Mrs. Jones tilted her head in that curious way, and Matthew explained:

"Her first husband's name," he said quietly, patting at Sybil's hand as she assumed a melancholy aspect. "Sybil considers this child as some kind of legacy to him."

A sheet of moisture materialized in Mrs. Jones' eyes as she shook her head. "My poor dear!" she said. "And what a young widow you must have been! What happened to him, if you don't mind my asking?"

Matthew, still lovingly stroking Sybil's hand, waited for her small nod of approval, and gave it a brief squeeze. "Of course not," he said, somber. "He died in a motor crash. It was very tragic."

"A pile up of twenty out on Drakeshire Lane. The same accident that took Matthew's first wife," Sybil sniffed.

This shocking development forced the misty pane into a dribbled tear, and Mrs. Jones began rifling through her person for a handkerchief. "How dreadful!" she cried, muffled through a swatch of embroidered silk.

"Perhaps so. But we found each other," Matthew crooned, and in that moment the roof fell away, the clouds parted, and Sybil and Matthew – gazing at one another as a philosopher unto the stars – held ransom the hearts of every person in the room. "And that's all that matters now," he finished poetically.

That such ill-fortune should, in divine providence, be thwarted by the indomitable power of love was a sentiment to disarm even the most barricaded of souls, and a heaping round of bittersweet platitudes was delivered their way, as well as another courtesy helping of roast beef and gravy.

* * *

Midway to the farmhouse and the sturdy barn adjacent, the last vestiges of summer's interminable twilight were at last quenched, swiftly ushering in the encompassing darkness of night. Aloft the stars were bright and plentiful, but with the moon cycling through its waning phases, the pair was sufficiently hidden as they traversed over the lowly grazed grass.

It was far from a convenient walk. The pasture was not very well kept, and Mary's mind journeyed to happier times whenever her foot unexpectedly set down on some soft, smelly, indefinable substance, waxing nostalgic upon those far-away and carefree hours of early morning. She would easily admit that even then she had been plagued by a vague annoyance, but what was annoyance to this farce? Here she was, at the mercy of the elements, barraged with unseemly forms of privation – at the moment undeniably traipsing – a verb fit only for vagrants, vagabonds, and storybook maidens with a penchant for shoelessness, not the well-mannered, immaculate, future Countess of Downton Abbey.

They breached the low plain and stumbled onto a well-tread drive, at the end of which the barn lay silhouetted against the barely-there moon. They walked around the perimeter until a slim, glowing line revealed the entrance, and peeked inside. There it was: the haymow that would serve as their bedchamber; the bales of pale gold hay their mattress. Something of a perverse, nightmarish wedding night Mary thought with a shiver as she crept through the doors, aided by the soft glow of a single lantern.

Branson removed the light from its hook and swung it about as they examined their lodgings. It was an unexceptional barn. The walls, lined with stalls that were stocked with strong, Yorkshire bred cattle, were festooned with angry, iron objects rusted through decades of use. Shadows replicated in the corners, giving cover to any creeping thing that may lurk there.

Branson smiled. "It's not so bad in here," he declared, a cow lowing loudly at Mary's elbow. The distinct barnyard aroma, pungent in the way as only the very source of fresh manure can be, nearly drove her out of the barn and back to the car straightaway; but she was long resigned to her fate, and instead charged bravely forward.

"I suppose it will have to do." A once expertly manicured hand reached back to pull at her neck, massaging away the day's troubles. The smoldering heat of the afternoon had left them both parched, and her tongue spread limply in her mouth like a pile of sand. "I'm positively dying of thirst," she repined.

"There's a trough over here, if you don't mind drinking after the cows."

Instinctually appalled, she pulled a rather un-Mary like face; but thirsty as she was, she unwisely decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. She walked to his side and peered into the cool waters, as clear and refreshing as the Abbey lake after a particularly geese filled day. There was a treasure hunt's worth of tiny, refuse-like objects bobbing at the surface that radiated a thick, palpable stench.

"I rather do mind," she said, recoiling.

Branson leaned over for his own inspection. "It doesn't look so bad to me."

"Then I take it you must have some experience in alternative water sources?"

"Very funny, milady. Yes, I'm poor. Go ahead and get a good laugh out of it – it's what your lot does best, isn't it? Make sport of those less fortunate?"

"You cast your net too wide. The only person I'm making sport of is you." She forestalled any retort by giving his shoulder a condescending pat. "Really, Branson," she segued, "we're in the country, not the moon! I doubt we'll need to reduce ourselves to drinking out of a cow trough, even if we are sleeping in a barn."

Branson frowned. "Where else do you expect us to find water?" he asked, trailing after Mary as she quickly exited. Typical Branson, she mused on the way out. City boy.

The night had done its work, leeching away the heat of the earth, and had tempered the air until it had become almost balmy. Mary paused a few moments on the precipice of the entrance as a refreshing burst of cool air sailed through her hair. She repaired to the back, Branson straggling on confusedly in her train, where, after a few minutes careless searching, she located the spigot jutting up from the ground and gave a pointed nod in the direction of the bucket just beside.

Branson sighed wearily.

"You're lucky I'm used to taking orders from you."

"It's nothing to boast over – everybody's used to taking orders from me."

Dented metal and with a visible film clinging to the surface, the bucket was hardly the elegant Waterford of Downton, but circumstanced as they were sacrifices had to be made, and once their thirst was suitably quenched they reentered the barn, shimmied up the ladder, and observed the haymow that would be their safeguard for the night. It was just as it should be. Precise rectangles of buttery straw were baled together and laid in neat stacks towards the back, while layers of escaped strands littered the floor in front, and it was these which they gathered up in their tired arms in preparation for sleep. Branson placed the lantern in the epicenter of the loft, down which an invisible line seemed branded, neither party needing any reminders as to the consequences of crossing over.

But even with the indelible divide, they both separately, silently, yet unanimously decried their close proximity. It seemed like something out of a ghastly romance novel: forsaken by their loved ones, stranded together, alone, with nothing but their passions to guide them. Except there was far more dirt and livestock than any self-respecting novelist would include, and the only passions the two shared were the sort to incite murderous fantasies.

A few minutes was enough to tire Mary of her task, and she gave up any pretense of creating a worthy makeshift bed forthwith. Branson remained unnaturally determined, studiously arranging the hay into an impressively thick mound. He had full marks for thoroughness, she decided as she reposed languidly upon her own sparse, scratchy pile on which she frequently tossed and turned.

"I give up; I'll never get comfortable in this corset," she said in surrender.

"You can take it off, if you like," he replied. "Give you my word I won't look."

"Forgive me if I don't find your word all that reassuring."

Branson frowned. "Believe it or not, milady, not every man in the whole of the Kingdom finds you attractive."

"Is that your usual tactic when sound argument eludes you? Telling people they're ugly?" She yawned. "I suppose next you'll call me a stupid face and tug on my hair."

Pausing mid-fluff, Branson leveled an unamused glare at Lady Mary's singly quirked eyebrow.

"You're a stupid face."

Sufficiently sick of each other's company, Branson turned off the lantern and they both laid down to endure the stuffy barn and the displeasure of each other's company in blessed darkness. Minutes of dull, terse silence rolled by, until Branson heard the familiar strains of hunger rumbling from across the loft.

"Hungry?" he asked.

"Starving." He heard the faint ruffling of hay, and her next words pitched in his direction. "If I must suffer through the smell of those wretched beasts I feel I should be granted some sort of compensation, and I could do well with a saddle of beef." A short pause followed, and he could envision her subdued smirk clearly. "Please tell me you have other talents besides being an _excellent_ chauffeur and making off with young, rich girls."

"If you're asking whether or not I know how to slaughter a cow," Branson replied coolly, "the answer is no."

"Pity. And here I was hoping you'd find a means to be useful on our little misadventure. I wonder why we even bothered to bring you along?"

"Because I'm married to your sister, and you're not ever going to change that."

"Saving the most wicked insults for last, I see."

"I like to hit where it hurts."

"Well you've certainly accomplished _that_."

She waited expectantly for his reply, but was caught off guard when he said in a tone more sober than he had used all night:

"Are you _ever_ going to forgive me?"

Mary paused. She considered being diffuse, or coy. Telling him she was sure she had no idea what he was talking about, or some other dissembling reply. But she was tired. She was sore. She spent the better part of her day ambling on a dusty, God forsaken road and was spending all of her night trespassing in a barn, and there was no chance she was going to pass up an opportunity to speak openly her mind.

"Shall I recount your transgressions?" she began tartly, exhaustion and hunger verging her tone towards anger. "You came into our home, were entrusted with our care, and then you deceive us all, run off with my sister – who was destined for _far_ greater things than the life of a commoner – severing her from all good society. So no. I will not forgive you. And you should be thankful enough that I tolerate you as it is!" Her speech concluded with the sounds of shuffling hay, the final turn of the night, the final word on the matter, and then silence.

Mary heard a resounding thump – Branson plopping back onto his pile – followed by the airy release of a sigh. "Just please don't murder me in my sleep," he said tiredly.

"I make no promises."

* * *

A third helping of strawberry trifle would really be too much, but she was eating for two, Sybil bargained, and baby obviously had a taste for the sweet, sticky pudding. What kind of mother would she be to deny it those simple pleasures of life?

"Of course I'll have some more!" she said. "Bless Mrs. Patmore – our cook, you know – but she never could turn out the puddings just the way I liked them. Always a bit on the salty side, for my taste."

Her spoon plunged in eagerly as Matthew leaned over, his napkin dabbing at splotch of cream on the corner of his mouth.

"Sybil, we can't keep this up forever," he whispered.

"You're right, of course," she replied around a mouthful. "The ruse will have to be put to an end at some point." She took a savory swallow and licked her lips. "But… surely not at least until _after_ tomorrow's breakfast."

Matthew grinned.

"Surely not!"

* * *

Sleep was fitful for the intrepid sojourners. Mary had never been so uncomfortable in her life, while Branson stared wide eyed at the cracks between the ceiling slants, occasionally besieged with the treasonous wish that he'd been born a rung higher than son of an Irish dock hand.

But self-doubt was not a natural element of his make up (Sybil deeming him regularly as "quite full of himself"), and as soon as the wallowing began he redoubled his sense of indignation, tripling the anger he felt towards the woman resting several yards over.

On the surface their relationship appeared mostly tranquil. But like the undercurrents in the ocean it had always lingered: the acknowledged but unvoiced wedge, the terse cordiality teeming with restrained and mutual contempt. Branson had known that it was something that would inevitably need to be addressed, that it would have come to a head eventually. One day they'd have it all out in a proper row, and better now, he thought, with their only audience a barn full of sleepy, indifferent cows.

The loft was deathly quite, but he doubted Lady Mary was sleeping.

The darkness bolstered his confidence.

"It wasn't wrong," he spoke quietly into dark, and in a reflective tone that might deceive one into thinking he was speaking only to himself.

His conjecture was right. At once he heard the ruffling of hay from across the loft that testified to her sleeplessness.

"Wasn't wrong?" Her form shifted till he could tell she was sitting up, and though the darkness concealed the minutiae of her face there was no mistaking the dark anger in her voice. "You tried to elope with her! Do you have _any_ idea what that would have done to her reputation? At least now we're capable of some kind of damage control, passing you off as this or that, but if you had succeeded that night she may never again have been allowed back at Downton!"

Branson was up as well, shouting at her barely perceptible outline.

"Only if _your_ family decided to cut her off!"

A noise of frustration, like a tire iron scraping across gravel, escaped her lips.

"You don't get it, do you? One cannot simply flout all convention and expect everyone else to pat them on the backs as if they were nothing more than a pair of naughty school children. You're naïve, you're foolish, and you don't understand at all how the world works!"

"You think I don't understand how the world works? I grew up in a bloody shack on the quays of Dublin watching my baby sisters starve. I've been working everyday for half my life just to put food on the table, so yes, I've a little bit of experience in how the world works, how it treats people differently because of when and how and who they were born to! The difference is that I don't care how it works, because I think it's wrong, and I'm not going to abide by a batch of antiquated rules that I didn't even make!"

"And I suppose you think you're the only one who wishes the world was different? You think we're all blind to the suffering of others, but your blinded by your own prejudice as well! It's not only about having money or not having money!" Her timber arched, rising high enough to drip with uncharacteristic emotion. "You have no idea what it's like, suffocating under a corset everyday, spending your youth caged in a drawing room, muzzled like a dog in training with marriage as the only means of escape!"

"I don't think –"

"Yes you do!" she cried. "You absolutely do! Don't try to deny it! You parade around with grand, progressive ideas, as if we're all too set in our ways or scared or stupid to want a better world! Some of us don't have the luxury of disregarding the rules. Some of us must do what is expected of us if we want to survive!"

Branson was nonplussed, and if Mary had been closer she might see how wide his eyes were set or the face paling with shock. But she wasn't, and all she noticed was a dark, motionless figure sitting silently in a haymow now echoing with her lamentable outburst.

The words were ringing in Branson's ears as well. True, they were all things he had heard Sybil say before, but that was Sybil – the fighter, the stoker, the brave one. Not the Lady Mary Crawley, who's tall frame stood imposing and chilled as an icicle. And although he would never admit it, at that moment he felt ashamed.

At last he replied.

"Maybe I have been unfair," he said softly. He was silent once more for a time, then continued. "But I didn't set out to ruin your family. You act like I've robbed Sybil of something, but I haven't. Her life isn't ruined because she doesn't have the one you always wanted for her."

Mary said nothing, tarrying on a single recollection that sprung unaccountably to mind. In time she felt her voice steady enough to voice it.

"You know when we were in Dublin," she said, "and we took that motor tour of the city?" Her voice had altered, was conversational rather than confrontational. "Sybil pointed out to Edith and I the neighborhood you grew up in."

Branson laughed, and replied in kind. "I'm sure that must have given you all confidence in me."

"It did, rather," she replied bemusedly. "I used to fear she'd wake up in some Dublin slum, but then I realized: You've done quite well for yourself."

"As well as I could."

"Yes, as well as you could." Mary sighed. "I suppose we're all confined by the accident of birth, in some way or another," she said quietly, but then laughed. "Except for Sybil, it seems."

"Yes. She's very brave."

"She is indeed."

"We've never had cause to disagree about her, have we?"

"No. And I don't think we ever will."

An obnoxious insect that neither had the energy to locate and destroy began a symphony of shrill chirping, and they both took it as a cue to settle back down to claim what meager sleep they could.

"I never did thank you for keeping our secret, did I?" he asked. Fatigue had thickened the lilting quality of his voice. She suddenly became aware of how much he spoke like a song, like a child's lullaby, and closing her eyes, pretending she was still in pinafores and conversing with shadows to assuage the coming storm of womanhood, she could almost think it beautiful.

"No," Mary yawned. "I don't believe you did."

Her normally sharp speech, like blades of tempered steel, had softened, the day's weariness smoothing away the edges. She sounded frank and congenial, and Branson, whispering in the dark, felt it almost like talking to one of his sisters who'd been scared into his bedroom by their Da come stumbling in late at night.

"But why did you do it?" he suddenly asked. "When you hated it so much? You could have ended it all right then and there."

Flippancy was her standard practice wherever Branson was concerned, and indeed any unfortunate who happened to land on her blacklist; but this time she gave his question due consideration. Her thoughts stretched far and wide as she parsed her mind for the answers, finally meandering far backwards, to a time when Sybil had snuck into the house after playing by the lake, a stowed away toad tucked snug into her pocket. Mary had caught her red handed in the nursery trying to give the nasty thing a bath.

"_You won't tell, will you?" _

"_Darling, you can't keep a toad in the house! Nurse wouldn't like it and neither would Mama."_

"_But I've never had a pet of my own, and I caught him myself – and I love him! And I've named him Murphy and I shall cherish him forever! Please, Mary?"_

Mary had hated the toad, just as she had hated the secret burdened upon her nearly fifteen years later; but searching out her heart she had to admit to herself that she didn't hate _him_, at least not nearly as much as she would like. And he had been right. An elder sister is never quite a mother, but with Sybil – the gap in their ages, their disparate temperaments – Mary had taken upon herself an elevated role to that of a mere sister, something more akin to a protector or mentor; and just as any mentor whose protégé's desires do not intercept with their own, had felt cruelly wounded when Sybil had thrown away a promising future for a life she could never comprehend wanting.

As children she had tried to persuade Sybil over the coming days that toads weren't meant to live indoors nor Ladies meant to keep them, but as usual Sybil's jaw had jutted and her mountain of curls had shook with defiance, her persistently obstinate nature refusing to see reason. And Mary, though repulsed as she had been with the creature, had never once told a soul.

After all, she mused, if Sybil wanted the frog instead of the prince, who was she to deliver her up to judgment?

_Who am I to judge her at all?_

"Why did I do it?" Mary sighed. "Because she wanted me to."

The answer seemed to satisfy him. She supposed he more than anyone could empathize with being powerless to deny Sybil anything she wanted.

"Thank you," he finally said, and after a pause: "Good night, Lady Mary."

"Good night, Bra –" She stopped herself short, and forced the next word painfully out. "_Tom._"

* * *

The normal gathering at The Dancing Pony's breakfast parlor was considerably enlarged that morning, and it was easy to see why.

"How _dare_ you speak to me that way!" Sybil screamed.

Matthew's eyes blazed, the cleaned off platters that once housed a lavish and hearty English breakfast entirely forgotten.

"I dare because you deserve it! How long do you expect me to remain by your side while you engage in such insupportable antics? Hour upon hour of nothing but your endless complaints and demands for sandwiches! It's enough to drive any fellow insane!"

"Do you see?" She waved her arms frantically, appealing to the gawking bystanders. "Do you see how heartless he is! Of course I'm hungry all the time – I'm _pregnant_!"

"Pregnant?" Matthew barked out a single, humorless laugh. "Sometimes I wonder whether you're carrying a human inside of you or a whale!"

"Well. I have news for _you_, Matthew Crawley!" Sybil paused as every breath in the room baited. "It's not even _your_ baby!"

The crowd gasped. Matthew's face contorted to a mask of deep anguish, his expression vacillating between fainting and bursting into tears.

"Sybil! How could you? And after everything we've been through!"

"You can shelve those crocodile tears, if you please." She turned and addressed the crowd. "Do not be deceived – he is no saint! Oh, there's no use pulling that shocked look, Matthew, I know it all – I've seen you with _her_!" A beat of crystal clear silence prevailed as every ear in the room waited for the dramatic reveal:

"My own _sister_!"

A scandalized wail rose up from a pocket of matrons in the corner. Such beastly behavior as ever they've seen! The village hardly ever entertained guests, and would be talking about this row for some time to come.

* * *

"So tell me more," Branson urged.

Mary appeared thoughtful for a moment. "Well, there was the phase when she was quite fascinated with sticking small rocks up her nose. Dr. Clarkson was on call for nearly a year."

Branson laughed. "I can imagine Sybil as a toddler."

"Toddler?" Mary said confusedly, but was put off disclosing further embarrassing details by the glorious sight of a substandard, roadside fruit stand.

Mary's foresight in bringing Matthew's jacket (and the wallet stashed within) had indeed proven essential. The two plied eagerly through the modest wares, discovering to their consternation that apples were a shared favorite. When Branson ate his completely, core and all, Mary fixed him with a strangely pensive look.

Immediately Branson was on the defensive. "Irish people don't waste anything," he said with inflated importance.

"No, no," she said. "It's just – I've always wanted to do that."

Partially sated, they continued on. The way was not so long, but long enough to demand the distraction of discussion, and they were able to chat with a modicum of ease, even occasionally without flinging mild mannered insults. It seemed they both were in the habit of disappointing their parents, and a good portion of the way was spent commiserating on the troublesome duty of looking out for younger sisters. By light of day Branson's open nature was more appealing than irritating, and Mary, caked in dirt with sprigs of straw adorning her hair, seemed far less a daunting personality to engage.

The road sloped upwards, and at the crest of the knoll the tiny rooftops of Arbor Grange came poking into view.

Branson grinned, unnecessarily pointing. "We're there!"

"Thank the Lord!" Mary cried. Despite the consumption of an apple two hours previous her stomach denounced loudly its prolonged state of vacancy; her blouse was ruined, her skirt beyond any salvation, every inch of skin filthy but for the trailing streaks of sweat forging paths across her face. They walked onwards into the village, turning down lanes and peeking around corners, until they at last came upon a familiar looking pair of faces. The offending couple looked well rested, well nourished, and were lounging quite cleanly and comfortably on a bench under the shade of large beech, laughing hysterically at some shared joke.

"Well there they are, our would-be heroes," Mary commented bitterly. "So much for having them rescue us."

Branson just laughed.

"Who could want a prince charming when I have you?"

It was Sybil who noticed them first. She straightened up, a smile splitting on her face as she pointed.

"Oh, look, Matthew! There they are!"

Matthew was on his feet in a thrice, abandoning his seat and flying towards his bedraggled beloved. Sybil was more slow to rise, and was incapable of flying anywhere. But she waddled as fast as she could.

"Darling, you'll never guess!" she cried as Branson walked over to close most of the gap between them. He embraced his cherished and very pregnant wife, bolting his eyes to her gorgeous face to keep them from uncontrollably rolling. "Matthew and I are getting a divorce!" she pronounced with glee.

Mary frowned into Matthew's lapels. "I should have known never to leave you alone with her, that she'd have you in her clutches by midday."

Branson, to his credit, took the shocking news in stride. "Right," he said in unamused deadpan. "I saw a garage down the way while Lady Mary and I were looking for you. I'll go over and see about getting the car fixed."

"But they won't –" Sybil began, but he had already walked out of earshot. "Oh, never mind. He'll find out soon enough."

Matthew led Mary to the bench and settled her down, and the two set to reacquainting themselves. "Oh, Matthew!" she said between breaths. "I have hay in places it would be unlady-like to mention."

"Some would think you unlady-like for even mentioning it at all."

"I suppose," Mary said, but offered no excuse.

Sybil smirked. "Don't tell me my husband's good company has been wearing off on you?"

"Perish the thought." Mary frowned. "I could spend a thousand hours with him and never be as comfortable sleeping in a barn as he is. You two must have quite the holidays."

"Oh, Tom and I never sleep in barns, not unless we're feeling _very_ adventurous."

"I…." Mary pressed closed her eyes. "Never mind."

Sybil had more to say on the subject, but was stopped by Branson trotting up to the trio.

"They're sending someone out to fix the car and bring her back to Downton."

"What?" Sybil cried. "But they told Matthew and me that they weren't open on the weekends. They absolutely refused to budge on the point!"

"That's because they took you for a toff; but I managed to bring them round."

Sybil's hands formed into fists as she attacked the air. "I am _not_ a toff! I am an independent, working class woman!"

"You sound like a toff."

"He's right," Mary concurred. "We all do. Except for Tom, of course. He sounds more like a precocious child, or perhaps a very drunk politician."

All were silent. Sybil wondered if she had misheard. Matthew was three seconds from laying Mary with a firm, yet loving, rebuke.

Branson only smiled placidly.

"Are you always this rude?" he asked, unperturbed.

Mary inspected her fingernails. "You're family. I don't have to be polite."

"At any rate," Branson continued, "I've arranged for a taxi to take us back to Downton." He paused. "I can go on with the crew heading out to the car, if you like. Help them to get it fixed up."

Mary patted his shoulder. "What a silly idea. You shall come with us, of course. It wouldn't do for any of us to be separated again."

Matthew and Sybil had been side-eyeing each other the entire length of exchange. She whispered out of the corner of her mouth:

"I feel as though I've missed something."

"Yes," he responded wonderingly. "And a great deal, at that."

As promised, a taxi very soon rolled around, and the two reunited couples stuffed themselves in, the small space of the cab's interior ensuring that the ladies were very nearly sitting on the gentlemen's laps. No one seemed to mind.

Mary had her arms laced about Matthew's neck as he kissed her brow. "You have no idea how relieved I am that you're all right," he said with a nuzzle, and then looked up sheepishly. "Both of you," he amended in Branson's direction.

Branson laughed. "I'm just happy not to be stranded on the side of the road."

"It was a ghastly ordeal, wasn't it?" Sybil said, curled up beside him, fragrant as an early spring rain, and looking quite as stunning and kempt as she always did.

Mary picked the last of the grime from under her fingernails. "And one I never wish to repeat," she said emphatically. "From now on, Tom is _always_ driving."

END

* * *

_I hope you guys have enjoyed this humorous adventure. Thanks so much for reading!_


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